Chapter 19

 

“And,” the Abbot said, “that was the last time I ever saw them.”

“That’s it?” I replied. “What happened to them?”

He glanced furtively at Oleg. “Well, if rumors are to be believed, it was the last time I saw them, but not the last time they saw me.”

“Oka-ay.”

“The story goes that they completed their mission and returned as heroes to Constantinople, growing both in their faith and in their acclaim. This provoked jealousy from the Master of the Forces, who then bribed the Prefect of the city, a man named Ablabius, with gold to betray the three generals. Ablabius went straightaway to the emperor and convinced him that the generals he had just honored with a great feast were, in fact, guilty of treason. What reasoning or arguments he made, I do not know, but supposedly Constantine threw them into prison without so much as a trial.

“Still, this did not satisfy the Master of the Forces. With the generals in prison, it might still come out that they were innocent—the victims of a horrendous slander. Thus, Ablabius once more convinced Constantine concerning the men, telling the emperor they still plotted against him even from prison. Constantine ordered them beheaded that very night.

“The jailor warned the generals of their fate, and together they prayed, begging God for mercy and aid. Nepotianus, it is said, recalled what he had seen in Myra, how I had delivered the innocent men from the Prefect’s hand. And he cried, ‘Lord God have mercy upon us. Save us now, as you saved the three men who were unjustly condemned to death in Lycia. Saint Nicholas, servant of Christ, though you are far from us, pray to your God that we may be saved.’

“Now, for what happened next, I personally have no memory. Supposedly, however, I came to the Emperor Constantine in a dream and ordered him to free the prisoners, or else I would lead the world in revolt against him. He asked who I was and I told him, and then I went and did the same thing to the Prefect. Or maybe they had the same dream at once. At any rate, Constantine conferred with the Prefect who verified the dream, and the generals were released. They turned their lives into giving charity to the poor.”

“It’s a nice story,” I replied.

He nodded.

“Except it never happened.”

“That I did not say. I simply pointed out that I have no memory of it. I suppose it’s possible that I forgot my dream. Who’s to say what they really remember from a dream anyway.”

“So why tell me?”

“If you look into my life—the background stories that have been written about me—you will find a great many fascinating and quite fanciful tales, none of which would get you closer to the truth than you are right now.”

“Like?”

“Well, for instance, there is the story of the three beheaded children whom I supposedly raised to life again. Or a different set of children who were butchered and eaten, whom I also raised to life. And then there’s the time I supposedly convinced the emperor to lower our taxes. He wrote an edict and I immediately put it in a bottle and tossed it into the sea. He then changed his mind and sent for it, but I told him it was already in force, and upon investigating he learned that, indeed, it was in force, and that the currents of the ocean had magically carried the bottle with the edict all the way to Andriaki, where they drew it out and put it into effect without delay. Would you be very offended if I said it was pure poppycock?”

“Pity, actually. I was sorta hoping you could come to New York and do the same thing.”

“Death and taxes: the two undeniable realities of life.”

“Except you’ve managed to avoid them both.”

He ran his hand over his mouth. “Yes, I rather suppose I have.”

“So,” I said after a moment, “are you going to tell me the rest? How you managed to wind up here? In Norway, of all places? It’s quite a distance from the southern coast of Turkey.”

“So it is. The peace of Constantine changed everything. The Empire, of course, would not survive much longer. Within a hundred years there were the attacks of the Huns, the rending of the empire itself in twain, the rise of the Caliphate, and eventually, the fall of Rome itself. Byzantium eventually succumbed to the Seljuk Turks. Christianity, meanwhile, pushed further north into Europe.”

“Wait. Back up a bit. Where are you, in all of this?”

“Alone, mostly.”

“How did it come to that?”

“My disciples—my friends—died. Nothing sinister. Simply old age catching up to them as it does with, well, nearly everyone. And I realized that I would either have to declare myself to the world, or go into hiding. I am not the only one rumored to still be around, of course.”

“What?!”

He hushed me with a sudden glance at Oleg. “There are others rumored to be around.”

“Who?”

“Some older than I. For instance, there is Loginus, the centurion whose spear pierced Christ’s side. There is Cartaphilus, the so-called Wandering Jew who took the name Joseph when he turned to Christ. He is said to still be around somewhere.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

He almost laughed. “Who am I to say? These legends were around in one form or another in my day, and I knew the reason they were legends was that nobody could just go up and talk to them—at least knowingly. They were wanderers. Sojourners on the earth doing good and spreading the message of Christ with their good works and acts of charity. They were not bound in one place nor did they have a retinue of disciples all clandestinely trying to learn their secret. In short, they went into hiding. That, I determined, was what I needed to do as well. It wasn’t easy.”

 

***

“You want to what?” Justin asked. Nicholas bent forward and stroked the old man’s hand.

“I want to die, Justin.”

The man flinched, his hands shaking. “The Lord has blessed you with an immortal life. Here I stand on the edge of eternity, looking long and hard into the darkened abyss into which I must shortly plunge, and I would give anything not to be facing it. My hope and trust are in Christ and His resurrection, but I tell you the truth, with Him in the Garden would I also pray, ‘Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me!’”

“I understand.”

“No! How could you?” Justin remonstrated. “You still walk and move like a younger man. Your joints do not creak with the years. Your hands do not shake, nor do you find it impossible to stay warm. Do not speak to me of what you understand!”

Nicholas frowned. “Is this any way to speak to your bishop?” Then he winked.

Justin tried to stifle a laugh and wound up coughing instead. Nicholas bent forward and dabbed at his lips with a cloth till the dying man pushed his hand away.

“You cannot give your life up.”

Nicholas put his hands down. “This is no life, Justin. Already I have the burden of watching every single one of my friends die. Soon there will be no one left who really knows me at all.”

“That is by your doing.”

“Do you jest? The danger of letting others in on my secret is too great! Already there are whispers and mutters amongst the people. Some wonder if I’m using some kind of magic, if you can believe it. Others call it a miracle, but do you know what they say about it? They call it the miracle of Nicholas, not the miracle of God! How can I live with myself if I become a distraction from my Lord? Far be it from me!”

Justin closed his eyes, waiting patiently. “Have you asked God about this?”

Nicholas shook his head. “He doesn’t answer.”

“Perhaps He already has, and you simply want it to be something else.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to hear anymore.”

“You once told me—after your vision—that your whole being was at one with the world, that you could sense every blade of grass, feel the shift of water in the earth, almost hear the thoughts of men. What happened to that?”

The Bishop looked heavenward. “I don’t know. I’ve lost the sense of it. Perhaps it is too much time down here already. Too much time in the city. I’ve gotten so used to everything that it all fades into the background, like a shore man who can no longer hear the waves.”

“Then perhaps, rather than dying, you should simply take a sabbatical. Go join the hermits in the desert. Learn to hear God again.”

Nicholas shook his head. “There would still be rumors. People would come looking for me.”

“Then disappear. Entirely.”

“How?”

Justin sighed. “You said it yourself. Die. At least, make them believe you have died.”

“You want me to lie? Pretend I am a corpse? And how should I pull that off? What shall I do when they send the physician to listen and see if my heart still beats within my chest?”

“All you need is a body, my friend. Dressed in a bishop’s robe with a shroud in place. Out of reverence, the physician will not lift the veil to behold the face of the deceased. He will only listen to the chest.”

“And where will I get such a body?”

Justin studied him with a calm expression.

Nicholas shook his head. “No.”

“I’ve always wanted to be a bishop.”

“Justin, you can’t. You deserve, of all things at least this, to be buried in your own grave.”

“Why? Who will know me? In less than a generation I shall be forgotten, with none to celebrate my life nor mourn my passing.”

“But—”

“At least this way, my death itself can serve a purpose. I can offer you this last service, and so honor the gift you have given me.”

“Justin—”

“Please!” He fell into coughing again. After a moment, he spoke hoarsely. “Give me this final jest. Let me set you free. Consider it my last request.”

“I—”

“Promise me!” He fell into a haggard, wheezing cough, and then an exhalation escaped his lips. His eyes went vacant, his hands limp.

Nicholas stared as Justin’s face blurred through the tears in his eyes. The ache made his chest feel like it would explode. “I promise.” He nodded, patting his dead friend’s hand. “I promise.”

 

***

“That’s how it began, didn’t it?” I asked.

Nicholas brushed away fresh tears. “It is. The first promise. First of many.”

“I can see that it had a profound effect on you.”

“It did. In so many ways. I’ve had much time to reflect on that subtle deception, and I’ve often wondered how history might have judged me, or might’ve changed, had we not done it.” He sighed and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “Justin was buried in my place, and there was a great mourning at ‘my’ passing. I shaved my head and beard and took the raiment of a lowly monk. Actually attended my own funeral. December sixth, the year of our Lord 343. It was discomforting, to say the least. And a tad embarrassing. Humbling, actually. His remains were placed in my tomb in Myra.” He half-chuckled. “After Byzantium fell to the Turks, mariners from Italy showed up at the tomb and spirited away ‘my’ relics to Bari, ostensibly to protect them from the infidels. There was also the whole matter of the myrrh.”

“Myrrh?”

“It is said to be a sweet, fragrant oil produced from my bones.”

“How is this possible?”

He shook his head. “I know not. Some strange quirk of anatomy? Or perhaps a miracle of God, honoring Justin’s sweet sacrifice on my behalf. Because, you see, it worked. I was free.”

“Okay. Free to do what?”

“Oh, that was the question, wasn’t it? I’d spent so much time as a bishop, now that I was dead—what was I to do with myself? I travelled for a while. Did good as I was able. For a time, I took work on a sailing ship, but not for long.”

“Couldn’t hack it?”

“Quite the contrary. I had a knack for it. But it was on the first night’s voyage that I fell asleep, and that’s when I had the dream.”

“The dream?”

“Yes. The dream. I saw the Lord Christ standing by the helm of the ship, and He asked me, ‘What are you doing here, Nicholas?’ Immediately, I fell to my knees and confessed what Justin and I had done. I begged His forgiveness for deceiving His flock. But He commanded me to stand on my feet and declared that I would be a bishop no longer. ‘The time for that service is at an end,’ He announced, ‘and I now have another task for you. Take My gospel to the farthest north, where the descendants of Japheth are. Amongst those who know you not you shall find refuge and work worthy of your calling.’”

“Is that how you wound up here? As far north as you could go?”

“Eventually, but it took a long time to get here. When I woke, I knew that I had received fresh orders from my commanding officer. I departed the ship at our next mainland port, which took me to Constantinople. From there, I journeyed northward through Thrace and Scythia, and then into the territory of the barbarians.”

“Barbarians.”

“Yes. The first people I encountered were the Alans. Nomadic tribes. But shortly after reaching them, the Alans were displaced by the arrival of the Huns.”

“Huns? As in Attila the Hun?”

“Just before his time. Like the Alans, the Huns were nomadic, tribal. Largely uncivilized. I was unable to win many converts among them. But I did make a few. Those that chose to follow Christ were forced to follow me as well, for the rest of the tribes cast us out. Had they stayed, they would have been killed. I saw no benefit to leaving them to die a martyr’s death so soon into their walk with Christ. There was so much to teach them, and I needed time to prepare them in the way.

“Like Stephanos and Justin, they took Christian names for themselves, to signify their new nature, and together we began a small colony of faith, even as we continued farther north. By the time Attila took over from his dead brother—whom many say he murdered—we were too far removed from the action for it to have any impact on us. But if you thought Attila the Hun was barbaric, you have no concept of what lay further north."